


A Personalized Gift for the President

by Singerdiva01



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:59:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singerdiva01/pseuds/Singerdiva01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom gives his lover, who happens to also be the president, a gift he knows she'll appreciate. (Smut free comment!fic written for the BSG Epics 2014 Prompting Challenge.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Personalized Gift for the President

He doesn’t have to ask to know she’s not a woman who likes surprises. She might have been, once, before years of responsibility and grief taught her that a surprise is usually just a crisis with a better PR person.  
  
He’s the vice president now and as such he has to steer clear of the black market, mostly, and it wouldn’t be right to get her a gift from there anyway. He could trade for something honestly, in her above the board government program, but people would talk if word got around he’d been looking for women’s perfume or jewelry. Besides, she’d take one look and wonder if it once belonged to one of those precious numbers she’d wiped from her board or if the former owner was still alive but forced to trade treasured belongings just to survive in her fleet.  
  
If he’d found her in another life, one where they both lived on solid ground and didn’t share the responsibility of holding up the remainder of the sky, he’d book two tickets to the shore, buy her a red bikini, and spoil her with moonlight massages, fruity drinks, and maddeningly slow lovemaking until she forgot work ever even existed.  
  
In this life, it’s a triumph when he coaxes her into taking a short mid-afternoon nap between meetings with the promise of a foot massage. The little lines he likes to kiss at the edges of her eyes are tight when she lays back against the pillows and he shushes her gently, playfully when she starts to report on the outcome of her last meeting with the Admiral. He cherishes the groans of contentment that sound off the bulkhead as he goes to work but less than five minutes have gone by when she goes silent and he looks up to see she’s fallen asleep, her hair splayed alluringly across her tranquil features.  
  
He knew he had to be quick because she wouldn’t sleep for long, not in the middle of the day or ever, and even Tory couldn’t keep the Cylons from showing up. He made quick work of the messy stacks on her desk, making decisions on the ones even she knew she should delegate but wouldn’t and setting aside those she’d want to see. He found her glasses amidst the clutter and slipped the repair kit he’d borrowed from his assistant out of his pocket. Once the battered frames we tight he placed them in the center of her now tidy desk and the note he’d hidden out of one of his own files.  
  
He opened it to read his own words one more time, smiling sadly at the circumstances as he did.  
  
_For your eyes only are on the right; the rest are in Tory’s inbox. I’m taking your 4pm with Cantrell and I switched days with Adama so I’m your next and last meeting. There’s a back rub in it for you if Tory tells me you did something with your afternoon other than work. (Don’t try to fool us, you know you can’t.) And try your glasses; they might not get loose so often if you quit throwing them at me. ;)_  
  
_Happy birthday, Laura._


End file.
